“I’ll go,” she vowed to the night, “or I’ll die!” She made plans and estimated means and resources. “Is it your maid?” he asked. It was shameful, but again, her mother had prepared her for it. “I thought you wanted to have a talk to me,” she said. While the cloth was laid, the host and Thames descended to the cellar, whence they returned, laden with a number of flasks of the same form, and apparently destined to the same use as those depicted in Hogarth's delectable print—the Modern Midnight Conversation. He was bringing the sing-song girl to the hotel! The strange cortège presently vanished below the window-sill. He resented being regarded as irregular. The arrangement had been made by the town matchmaker, a frightening old oak of a man.
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